


Three Words

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fix-It, Fluff, M/M, Oneshot, Poor Bilbo, Thorin Is an Idiot, as per the usual, because my feels cannot be contained, bilbo has a nightmare, but it is ok in the end, pretty much, slightly sappy, then confesses, total fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 17:43:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4929076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I didn't even need to watch BOTFA to need to write this fic.</p><p>I just thought of the damn thing.</p><p>Enjoy :)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Three Words

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't even need to watch BOTFA to need to write this fic.
> 
> I just thought of the damn thing.
> 
> Enjoy :)

_The halls of Erebor were silent as a tomb as Bilbo Baggins walked them alone._

_No hammer-strokes rang throughout the endless rough tunnels; no roaring of forge-fire crackled against the jagged stone; no clink of movement or coarse murmurings or roars of celebration or reminders of any life at all existed to break the deathly silence. Even Bilbo’s footsteps made no sound, his gift of hobbit’s stealth lending him secrecy. He did not entirely know why he used such caution; all he knew was that there was some tingling sense of danger pushing at the back of his mind with warning fingers, whispering into his pointed ear of a danger stalking the empty halls._

_Bilbo Baggins fingered the golden ring in his pocket as he went._

_The action pooled an all-too-familiar warmth in his bones, seeming to fill a hole in his heart yet tear open another. Even with the familiarity something seemed off; he felt that the action of holding the ring – even being **able** to hold it – was intrinsically wrong._

_The hobbit sped up, almost tripping over his own feet, as he began to recognise certain features of the dark grey passage. He was in the tunnel leading to the great Feasting Halls of Erebor, the cavernous room which almost matched the magnificence of the immense treasure chamber. Bilbo could recall the Feasting Hall being full of roaring flame and good cheer, yet as he traversed the lesser-known entrance tunnel he could hear nothing but a near-imperceptible hiss; when he paused metres before the doorway he recognised the sound as that of an elusive breeze. It incited far more fear in the hobbit’s mind than any serpent’s warning and he stumbled into the hall._

_At first he thought that the dwarves strewn on every surface were merely sleeping._

_In three thudding heartbeats the awful silence and the smell of death hanging in the stifling air translated to his thoughts, reality trickling through his mind. Fear gripped Bilbo with eagle’s talons and he stumbled off through the hundreds of bodies, seeing with eyes that did not want to see; once he thought that he might have caught a glance of Balin’s snowy beard, and after that he did not look._

_It was with a sense of heavy inevitability that he came across Fíli and Kíli, together in death as they always were in life, their fingers inches from the other’s as they stared up to the carven ceiling with sightless eyes._

_Bilbo moved away as quickly as his numb feet would carry him. He wound his way through the silent bodies until he reached the head of the table, drifting dreamlike past the endless dead. He did not want to go, for he knew what he would find, but his legs would not obey him; soon he came to the massive throne of carven oak, and there was Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thr_ _ór._

_He was not dead, but dying._

_Bilbo watched the colour slowly drain from those blue eyes, even as they fixed on to his own, and the dwarf spoke three awful words._

_‘Goodbye,’ Thorin whispered, ‘Master Burglar.’_

It was with a choked breath that Bilbo broke from his nightmare. For a moment he believed the dream to be truth – Fíli and Kíli dead, Thorin dying – but reality returned with every strangled gasp he drew in, and his heartbeat slowed as his mind cleared. Though it had been close, Fíli and Kíli had survived the Battle with only minor wounds; and Thorin himself, after speaking what both had thought his last words to Bilbo, had slept for three tense weeks before waking. Even now, a month later, Bilbo sometimes had trouble believing that Thorin had lived. The dwarf king had only managed to speak three words to Bilbo before Balin had dragged him back to his royal duties.

 _‘Am I dead?’_ Thorin had murmured, staring right at Bilbo with something akin to wonder in his striking blue irises.

 _‘No,’_ the hobbit had assured him, prodding his shoulder gently with his next words, _‘though you gave us all a right scare, may I say.’_

Thorin had not laughed, but his eyes had creased warmly, and it had drawn a smile from the exhausted hobbit. A smile which had become rare over the past weeks; though with Fíli and Kíli relatively unharmed and Thorin awake, he was already feeling lighter.

A frown had creased the dwarf king’s brow, his eyes on the rings beneath Bilbo’s own, but before he could speak Dwalin had burst in with a loud exclamation and shattered any semblance of peace. The two had not had a moment alone since then. The hobbit had sought to comfort himself with the rare glimpses of dark hair which he was afforded, but for reasons he had not been able to name it had not been enough.

As Bilbo carded a hand through his curls with a shaky exhalation, he found that he was now able to name them.

The dream, the reminder of everything which he could have lost, had broken the walls of denial which he had built about himself; yet it brought him no pleasure to _know_ , for what he wished for was impossible as it was foolish. 

Minutes later, the hobbit found himself wandering through Erebor’s tunnels. He was forced to desperately fight off a crushing sense of déjà vu, both of his dream and the awful weeks before Thorin had awoken; fuelled by the memory, his desire for fresh air and open skies only built until he was running past the ragged stone. It was somehow just in time that he skidded into the open, his lungs tight as he drew in cool air.

For a moment he merely stared across the moonswept plains. He gazed into the darkness, the night wind ruffling his hair; the moon was a milky orb half-obscured behind wisps of clouds, gilding the edges of the thick storm-clouds which crept closer. Though Bilbo did wish to see the stars, he was grateful merely for the silver light which the moon afforded, a light which no dwarven-made lanterns could replicate.

To the best of his knowledge, Bilbo was the only one who knew of the tiny alcove in the Lonely Mountain’s side. After stumbling upon the rocky niche in that terrible three-day period before Fíli and Kíli had awoken, the hobbit had visited the spot frequently when the oppressive rock of the dwarven kingdom became too much. In the near onescore times he had visited, he had not come across another living soul.

A record which was broken when he caught a shifting of footsteps from behind.

When Bilbo turned, searching the entrance for the second inhabitant of his sanctuary, somehow he was not surprised to see the shadowed features of Thorin Oakenshield. Bilbo fumbled with his words for a moment – it seemed the dwarf’s blue eyes were even more vivid then he remembered, and reassuringly clear.

‘Good…er, morning, Thorin.’

‘Good morning, Master Baggins,’ the dwarf replied gravely, coming to stand beside him. Bilbo snuck a glance at his profile, gilded by moonlight, and blushed.

‘Could you not sleep?’ Thorin asked. ‘Is you bed uncomfortable?’

He was looking quite majestically distressed and the hobbit hurried to reassure him that the bed was indeed quite comfortable. Thorin seemed slightly mollified by this, though he still enquired after the reason behind Bilbo’s sleeplessness, suggesting a range of reasons from insomnia to the sound level of the other dwarves’ activities. It was when he made the rather disquieting proposal of ensuring their silence that Bilbo swiftly broke in.

‘No, really, it’s fine,’ the hobbit said. ‘It was just a dream.’

Falling silent, Thorin gave a single nod. He did not push further, which Bilbo was grateful for; the hobbit received the impression that he was well acquainted with nightmares.

‘Why are you out here, then?’ Bilbo asked, gesturing lamely at the rock. Thorin’s blue eyes darkened as he looked to the clouds.

‘Lately, I have found myself uncomfortable in the kingdom of my forefathers,’ the king admitted slowly. ‘The halls hold too many restless ghosts. I feel that I do not belong here any longer; I spent too long beneath the stars, and now wish for them more than any dwarf should.’

The sadness written across his features became mixed with wistfulness as he looked to Bilbo. He looked almost _lost_ , and every part of the hobbit rebelled against it.

‘Is that wrong?’ the king asked quietly, which was the final nail in the metaphorical fencepost for Bilbo.

‘Absolutely not. I have always though it odd for any creature to live below ground, at any rate,’ Bilbo stated firmly, his voice softening as he continued. ‘And, obviously such an experience would change you, Thorin. It was with no small cost that you regained your mountain, and it is my opinion that you have done enough for your people.’

Thorin’s smile was small in the moonlight, but it was warm and beautiful and the hobbit was once more glad for the darkness hiding his flush.

‘ _Bundul m_ _ê_ _denapdul_ ,’ the dwarf said. ‘As usual. Perhaps that blonde tree-shagger would listen if it was you who spoke.’

Despite himself, Bilbo snickered at Thorin’s entirely rude description of the Elvenking; he had forgotten the mutual disgust which the two held towards one another, though it seemed to have recently evolved into more of a half-hearted resentment.

‘You should not speak about your allies so,’ the hobbit admonished, though his irrepressible smile most likely betrayed him a little. Thorin heaved a theatrical sigh in response.

‘Not you too, Bilbo,’ the king said in a voice very near a groan. ‘Of late, Balin has been lecturing me endlessly – _be kind to your Council, don’t scowl at your subjects, stop rolling your eyes at me, laddie_ – the usual.’

The dwarf smirked as Bilbo gave an amused laugh.

‘Is that exaggeration I detect, Thorin Oakenshield?’ he tutted, earning himself a grin from the king – a splendid reward, in Bilbo’s opinion.

Within the comfortable silence, the hobbit turned his gaze once more to the clouds. Despite himself his mind wandered to a different, darker path, to the golden ring which he had found in the tunnels beneath the Misty Mountains.

Shortly before Thorin’s recovery, Gandalf had appeared in Erebor; he had demanded to see Bilbo’s ring, and after staring at it for a while and muttering darkly to himself he had taken off once more, returning four days later to ask for it once more, permanently this time.

 _‘This object is exponentially more dangerous than you could ever know,’_ the wizard had said, wizened face serious. _‘It is of utmost importance that it be destroyed.’_

And so Gandalf had flown away upon one of the massive Eagles, his parting words ringing in Bilbo’s ears like funeral bells.

‘What was your dream about?’ Thorin asked softly.

The hobbit twitched his nose, striving to throw off the cloak of melancholy which swept over him at the reminder of his nightmare. _They are all alive_ , he reminded himself fiercely. _They are alive, and he is standing right beside you._

‘It was…’ Bilbo paused briefly, finding that he could not continue for a moment or two. ‘I was walking Erebor alone when I came to the Feasting Halls. You…and Fíli and Kíli, and the Company…were all dead.’

A sad smile crossed his face as he glanced at Thorin, the expression mirrored in the other’s eyes.

‘I am not the only one with ghosts in the Lonely Mountain,’ the king murmured. There was a pause in which he studied the smaller hobbit. ‘How long until you leave?’

Bilbo realised belatedly that he should not have been surprised; Thorin had always been astute, as befitting heir to the throne, and of course he would have realised such a thing. Yet still, the dwarf must have been watching him closely…

Swiftly quashing the unnecessary ideas which had arisen at the thought, the hobbit turned his mind back to Thorin’s query.  

‘I thought that I would stay a month longer, and leave at the next full moon,’ the hobbit replied, watching the round silver disk. Thorin went silent once more; Bilbo only had to wonder briefly what ran through his mind before his curiosity was answered.

It was not at all what he had expected.

‘When you leave,’ the dwarf said softly, ‘can I go with you?’

For a few seconds, Bilbo merely stared at the dwarf, lost for words, until he regained use of his vocal chords. Even when he spoke his voice was slightly strangled, though his disbelief was soon eclipsed by delight.

‘Of course. Of course you can, if that’s what you want.’

The hobbit giggled as a rather silly thought crossed his mind.

‘What is it?’ Thorin asked, a half-smile tugging at his beard. Even though he had reclaimed Erebor, his debt to his ancestors fulfilled, he kept his beard short in remembrance.

‘I can’t wait to see you meet my relatives,’ Bilbo replied, grinning up at the dwarf. He truly could not; imagining the kingly Thorin surrounded by all sorts of odious hobbits could not fail to bring a smile to his face…and the thought of the fauntlings using the King Under The Mountain as a playground was entirely too adorable.

Unbidden and entirely inappropriate, an image of Thorin by Bag End’s fireplace, a cup of tea in his hand and that gorgeous smile creasing his blue eyes, drifted through his mind.

Bilbo flushed for the third time that night and hurriedly banished the mental image. He returned swiftly back to the present, his blush only darkening as he realised how very close Thorin was; Bilbo could see every detail in his glowing blue eyes, every strand of silver streaking his dark hair, and it was not doing his heart any favours. Thorin, too, seemed a little edgy, though his gaze remained fixed on Bilbo’s.

‘How many relatives do you have?’

‘Er…’

There was a long pause as the hobbit counted back in his head. He had reached fifty when he gave up, shaking his head in exasperation. His curls flopped into his eyes; he really ought to cut them, he thought absently.

‘I’m not sure,’ Bilbo admitted. ‘Over fifty.’

Thorin raised his eyebrows, impressed. After a moment his expression morphed into something else, something which the hobbit could not exactly peg; whatever it was, Bilbo had a sudden feeling of teetering between two steep precipices.

‘Do you not have a partner?’ Thorin asked softly. ‘A One?’

‘No, as a matter of fact,’ the hobbit replied, equally quietly. This was not out of choice; rather, he felt as though the breath had suddenly disappeared from his lungs.

‘Nobody you love?’

Bilbo took a silent breath as he tumbled down one of the deep precipices, thrown by only three words.

‘There is somebody.’

Thorin gave a short nod as he drew away, leaving the hobbit feeling bereft of something unnameable. For one awful, dizzying moment Bilbo fell, seeing the bottom rush towards him – then, inches before impact, he just…stopped _._ He realised that no matter what he did here, whatever he admitted to Thorin, it would not end his life. He would still return to the Shire, still continue living his old life – well, as closely to it as he could – but at least he would _know_. Bilbo had the feeling that if he said nothing here, but just left without ever telling the dwarf anything, he would regret it more than anything else. His dream had reminded him of what he had to lose, and how awfully his life could have ended; nothing could be as bad as that, not even heartbreak.

So, mostly unaware of what he was doing, Bilbo spoke three words.

‘It’s you, Thorin,’ he said.

For a moment he wondered if the dwarf had even heard him, so quiet his words, but Thorin’s shoulders had tensed where he faced away. A sudden belated wave of fear washed over Bilbo until he could barely stand.

His knees gave way, but there were a pair of warm hands at his elbows to steady him.

He glanced upwards, only to meet Thorin Oakenshield’s blue gaze and become quite unable to leave them.

A dizzy shock lanced through him as he saw how soft the dwarf’s expression was.

‘Bilbo,’ Thorin whispered, in a voice impossibly vulnerable, ‘ _never leave me_.’

It was with those three words that he took Bilbo into his arms, pressing his face into the hobbit’s neck as the smaller stared at the sky. Shock blanked his mind for an eternal heartbeat, before he realised that he was smiling even as tears stung his eyes. Tears which the dwarf wiped gently away as he drew away slightly, holding Bilbo’s small face in his calloused hands and gazing down at him with the look of a man who had just gained the world’s most precious treasure.

‘I was never going to tell you,’ Thorin said. ‘How could I, after all I did?’

Bilbo tightened his fingers where they lay over the dwarf’s own.

‘You _are_ an imbecile, Thorin Oakenshield,’ the hobbit replied, to which the king laughed.

‘I was being serious.’

‘So was I.’

Bilbo smiled softly at Thorin, contradicting his own words; he was just beginning to fully comprehend what was happening, and there was a warm and light feeling flooding his body from his fingers to his toes.

‘I have long since forgiven you,’ he whispered. ‘You should know that.’

The dwarf entwined their fingers. His returning smile was incredibly honest, full of thousands of different emotions and memories and words which could not be spoken; Bilbo felt a rush of love so incredibly strong, and for the first time in far too long felt truly and impossibly content.

‘ _Men lananubukhs_   _mê_ ,’ the dwarf murmured, before kissing him with a tenderness both soft and sweet.

‘I love you,’ Bilbo whispered when he drew back.

The two stood together beneath the full silver moon, and with each three words of his own, found eternity.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Men lananubukhs mê: I love you  
> Bundul mê denapdul: your words are truth
> 
> The end may have been slightly sappy but sorry I am bagginshield trash and what must be, will be. Feedback, criticism or any comment at all would be highly appreciated :)


End file.
